


THE BEAUTY IN THE BEAST

by BlueSpark_Melsa



Category: Beauty and the Beast (2017)
Genre: Disney, Disney Movies, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:34:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22476451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueSpark_Melsa/pseuds/BlueSpark_Melsa
Summary: A Retelling of THE BEAUTY AND THE BEAST
Kudos: 5





	THE BEAUTY IN THE BEAST

**Author's Note:**

> Hope is the thing with feathers  
> That perches in the soul,  
> And sings the tune without the words,  
> And never stops at all,  
> And sweetest in the gale is heard;  
> And sore must be the storm  
> That could abash the little bird  
> That kept so many warm.  
> I've heard it in the chillest land  
> And on the strangest sea;  
> Yet, never, in extremity,  
> It asked a crumb of me  
> \--Emily Dickinson

The rose looked so broken and so lifeless and the glass jar just as cruel and suffocating. The vines had wound themselves around it just as the curse had around my heart. I could hear each and every petal as it would fall. I could feel the thud of it on the bottom of the jar and every time that happened, I too would fall, just as surely into the beast that was slowly becoming me.

“Hope is the thing with feathers that perches on the soul. And sings the tunes without the words and never stops at all” 

But what if that bird has long been suffocated and its wings ripped out? What if it has long forgotten how to sing and the only sounds that come out of it now are the whimpers of dismay? What if the soul in itself is scarred and in anguish? Yes, if that were the case then the harborer of such a soul, even on this snowy, ash tinted and liberating morning would definitely be me.

The wind was carrying the soft, fragile flakes on its back as if it were duty bound to deliver them safely to the ground. Their whisperings sang a song which I would surely have understood if it was not for the weight of my own self on my heart. The morning was of such a freeing spirit that I would have, trust me, gone away, far, far away with my horse, if it was not for my hideous appearance and the desperation that sucked me in into itself.

Concealed and prisoned in this dreary castle, which I called home, I had no way of knowing about an old clock maker living far away in the merry town of Merp. I did not know that he would have to travel somewhere with his goods and get lost. I did not know that wandering in the forest, lost, hurt and hungry he would stumble upon my door. I certainly did not yet know about one of his daughters whom he treasured most. I did not know of his love for his daughter and of his daughter’s love for him. I did not know of her desire for a beautiful red rose which was fated to change our lives. I did not know of her destiny and I did not know of mine and I certainly did not know how intertwined they were going to be. I did not know that somewhere in the near future, which now seemed so desperate, my heart was going to beat again. I did not know any of it. I didn’t.

But presently, later this evening, what I did know was my duty as a creation of God; which was to give help to anyone in need of it. So I did. Food for him, fodder for his horse and warmth for both. The lost clock maker from the town of Merp, as he called himself, was well satiated, well warmed and well looked after. And that is where it should have ended. 

He should not have been reminded of his promise to his dear young daughter. He should not have seen the rich rose bushes in my garden, with petals so red one could mistake them for frozen wine and texture such that the Arab silks and the Indian muslin seemed like sandpaper. He should not have dared to steal one from me for his beloved daughter. But he did. He did and it threw me in a fit of rage as for how ungrateful that old swine had been. Feasting on my courteousness and then stealing from me. Stealing from the very rose bushes planted by my mother’s slender hands. Rose bushes she used to sing to every winter in hope that they would bloom just as beautifully as her voice the next spring. 

In my fury I forgot that my existence was to stay hidden, I forgot of who I had become and of what harm I was capable of inflicting. I jumped down from where I stood ready to tear him to bits, “HOW DARE YOU STEAL FROM ME?!”  
The old man scrambled back, dropping the flower, “Who-Who are you? I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to s-steal anything.”  
“YOU MEANT TO STEAL MY FLOWERS. I WILL THROW YOU IN THE DUNGEONS AND LOCK YOU FOREVER!!” 

The color drained from the clock maker’s face as he cried “No! I beg thee! Don’t do that! My child! My daughter awaits me! I beg thee! I beg thee!”  
His plead rang out in the vast garden, sincere tears melting the ice on which they fell. I saw in his eyes the plain reflection of fear and worry, but underlying all that was the true love of a father. I saw, and as I did the clock maker’s eyes transformed to those of my own father’s. His pleads resembled my father’s on that fateful night when I was cursed to be a beast. When he, just like the man before me had begged for me, his son. When he had begged the Enchantress to take back her words. The curse that echoed still in my head,

“If he could learn to love another and earn her love in return,  
The curse shall go no further and only then his princely form he shall earn  
But beware as time ticks forward, the rose shall wilt and die  
If he fails his task till his 22nd name day, he shall be a beast till the end of time”

I remember that day as clearly as I remember my reflection in the mirror. It is just as engrained in my memory and as engraved in my heart; if I still have one. 

I was the prince of Conques.  
And if my story were to be narrated; it would begin and end something like this I suppose:

‘Once upon a time in the heart of France, a handsome young prince lived in a beautiful castle.  
Although he had everything his heart desired, the prince was selfish and unkind. He taxed the village to fill his castle with the most beautiful objects and his parties with the most beautiful people.  
On a particular evening that was just like any other, filled with people, music and exquisite food the prince’s life was fated to change just as surely as the storm that was to come.

“And sweetest in the gale is heard-”

That evening an unexpected guest arrived at the castle, seeking shelter from the bitter storm. As a gift she offered the prince a single rose. Obviously repulsed by her haggard appearance the prince turned the woman away.  
But she warned him not to be deceived by appearances, for beauty is found within.  
When he dismissed her again, the old woman’s outward appearance melted away to reveal a beautiful enchantress. The prince begged for forgiveness, but it was too late. For she had seen that there was no love in his heart. As punishment, she transformed him into a hideous beast. And placed a powerful spell on the castle and all who lived there. As days bled into years the prince and his servants were forgotten by the world. For the enchantress had erased all memory of them from the minds of the people they loved. But the rose she had offered was truly an enchanted one as it succeeded her words. And as the years passed, the prince fell into despair and lost all hope. For who could ever learn to love a beast?’ 

For who could ever learn to love a beast? To love a beast. A beast.  
The enchantress had been clever to curse me with such words. Love? True love? For a beast? 

I was still just as I had been then.  
But what I never knew and never realized, was that beauty is, most definitely, found within. And more than that it is not that it lies in frivolous things or in expensive jewels but it is beauty that lies in the eyes of the beholder.  
And her eyes truly did hold beauty in every sense. The clockmaker’s daughter that came riding upon his horse the next sunrise to take his father’s place in the dungeons, held not only beauty and love but an ocean of a desire to touch and heal.

Belle was just a prisoner at first. A foolish young girl who valued the life of her old and withered father more than her days in the sun. But I swear upon my ancestors I do not know what it was that led me to invite her down to dinner three days later.  
Perhaps it was the incessant nagging of Lumiere, the maître'd who had turned into a candelabra (from the curse) or perhaps Mrs. Potts’ (who had quite literally turned into a tea pot) attacks on my conscience about leaving a young lady locked in the dungeons.  
And perhaps it was them and Cogsworth together who had somehow persuaded me to show Belle the library and name it her’s. 

I do, however doubt their contributions in making me see a soft twinkle in her eyes every time she picked up a book. I doubt their contributions in making her voice sound like a melody laced with beautiful harmonies or in making her touch feel like the space between closing your eyes and falling asleep. I doubt it was they who made the time fly faster when I was with her or crawl when I wasn’t. But if not them then who else? For the heart of a beast, surely, does not know such things. 

But just as surely, her’s did.  
Belle didn’t shudder when my paws accidentally brushed her. She didn’t find it repulsive that I could not use a spoon and had to put my face to the bowl to drink the soup. She somehow found small, little ways to make me feel more………human than I had ever felt.  
Her presence was like the slow stirring of coffee beans mixed with dark chocolate. Just as satisfying and warm. And it was she who broke the spell.  
It was she who had kissed me, which assured me not only of the fact that I had a heart, but also that it was beating and pounding at the moment. It was she who had, in every sense, turned me human again.

“And sore must be the storm that could abash this little bird,  
That kept so many warm.”  
Indeed, that storm would most definitely, have to beastly sore if he could abash such a beautiful and innocent bird that had kept it warm. That had reached out and cradled his life when it was hanging lose from the last dying petal. When she had loved him and changed him. When she had restored faith, patience and peace within him. But surely my Belle would be and is so much more serene and beautiful.

For it was she, who had seen something within me no one else had. For it was she, who had seen the beauty in the Beast.


End file.
